And then he had nodded slowly, his keen gaze narrowing on the spot where Sir Luke had disappeared into the orchard. Unless he means to cast you aside.
Faithe had stared at him, the blood chilling in her veins.
I'll wager that's exactly what he's got in mind, the shameless bastard.
Faithe had been preoccupied all afternoon, performing her chores numbly as she replayed Orrik's comments over and over in her mind. Despite the rage that had simmered within Orrik ever since Hastings, he was a wise man; Faithe had relied on his counsel for years, and he'd never let her down. She couldn't remember his ever having been wrong about anything.
Part of her still wanted to believe that Sir Luke was too honorable to stoop so low, yet how well did she really know him? The more she thought about it, in a panicky daze, the more likely it seemed that Orrik was right—that her husband meant to find out everything he could about Hauekleah, in preparation for the day when he would pack her off to a nunnery. By refusing to bed her, he was essentially stripping her of her rights as his wife. He could toss her aside at a moment's notice. She would have no security whatsoever. And she could lose Hauekleah.
She couldn't permit it, couldn't simply stand by and let him steal her ancestral home from her. Today's tour of Hauekleah only served to remind her of all she'd be giving up if she allowed that to happen.
Her problem was a simple one: Her husband was scheming to secure an annulment, and therefore steal Hauekleah from her, by refusing to bed her.
The solution? Force him to bed her. It was the only way to protect her rights.
"Why do you frown so?" asked Sir Luke.
She flinched. "Sorry." Fool. She sounded like some meek little child. Why shouldn't she frown, if she was so inclined?
"Is there something wrong with the ring?" he asked, eyeing the emerald encrusted band as she twirled it around her finger.
"Nothing." She released it. "Sorry." Idiot.
Force might not be the best approach. How did a mere female force a man of his size and strength to do anything? She smiled as it came to her. One place she'd never felt like a mere anything was in bed. It was during lovemaking with Caedmon that she'd discovered the true power of being a woman—the power to arouse and delight and finally satisfy. She'd learned to enjoy that power, to use it for her own pleasure and his. She'd learned how to be seductive.
She knew she was comely; she saw her beauty reflected in the eyes of nearly every man who looked at her. And in Sir Luke's eyes she saw not just attraction, but longing. The feeling, of course, was quite mutual; to deny it would be absurd. Every time he looked at her, with that probing gaze, her skin grew tight and shivery; her lungs felt as if they were being gently squeezed, leaving her starved for breath.
Faithe stole another glance at her husband, who was leaning forward to listen to some story his brother was telling. His gaze was focused, his eyes intent. He seemed to bring that fierce concentration to everything he did. She wondered if he would bring it to lovemaking as well.
She lifted her goblet with an unsteady hand and drained it, setting it down with a determined thunk.
That was it, then. There was no other solution to her problem. She'd have to make Sir Luke want her so badly that he had to bed her, regardless that it meant throwing aside his plans to take Hauekleah from her. She'd have to seduce her own husband.
She could do it tonight, when they retired to bed. She'd tease him a little, entice him a little... just enough to get under his skin. He wanted her already; it shouldn't take that much effort on her part for his simmering desire to escalate into a roiling boil. And then, when his need was too great to deny any longer, she could roll up her sleeves and finish the job.
A simple problem with a simple solution.
No great challenge, and she might—probably would—enjoy it quite a bit.
If she could stop this incessant shivering.
Don't be nervous, she chided herself. You want him and he wants you. You're already married to him, for pity's sake. There's nothing to be afraid of.
She could do this. This could work.
Chapter 7
"Milady's out of her bath now, milord."
"Thank you, Moira."
The stout maid bid Luke and Alex good night and left for her own home, leaving the two men alone in the vast and silent great hall. "Are your wounds healing well?" Luke asked his brother, reclining on his pallet in a shirt and loose braies.
"Very. That disgusting muck Faithe keeps slathering on seems to work."
Faithe. His wife and his brother had called each other by their Christian names since the beginning. Luke envied Alex his easy relationship with her.
"Now that you've expressed a measure of brotherly concern for my welfare," Alex said with a half smile, "I suggest you go upstairs and help that lovely bride of yours to dry off."
"I'm sure she can manage on her own."
"Perhaps not. Ladies tend to have trouble reaching the most interesting places—"
"I said she can manage," Luke bit out.
Alex fixed his all-too-knowing gaze on Luke. "This isn't right, brother."
Luke's hackles rose. "Who are you to scold me about right and wrong? I'll go up when I'm good and ready."
One of Alex's industrious twins emerged from the buttery, bearing a flagon and a cup. "Some brandy before bed, milord?" She glanced at Luke as she knelt at Alex's side, unable to completely disguise her disappointment at his presence. "I mean, milords. I can fetch another cup."
Alex turned doleful eyes on Luke as he rested a hand on the wench's bottom. "Are you good and ready yet?"
Luke rose from his bench. "It seems I am." He bid the couple a perfunctory good night. They were locked in an ardent embrace almost before he'd turned away. He took the stairs to the bedchamber slowly, letting Lady Faithe hear his footsteps so she'd know he was coming. When he got to the landing, he knocked softly.
"Enter," she said in French.
Luke opened the door. She sat on a stool next to the big wooden tub in the corner, a threadbare linen towel wrapped around her, pouring something from a green vial into her palm. Setting the vial on the floor, she rubbed her hands together, then leaned over and slid them up one leg from ankle to thigh, leaving a gleaming liquid trail.
Swallowing hard, Luke turned and shut the door, then stood facing it for a few moments to collect himself. She had extraordinary legs, as lithe and shapely as her arms, and surprisingly long. He almost wished he hadn't seen them, for the sight sorely undermined his resolve to keep his distance from her until she'd ceased to tremble at his touch.
Forcing himself to face her again, he saw that she'd finished her legs and was now rubbing the contents of the vial onto her arms. Her skin gleamed like polished ivory in the golden half-light from the oil lamps scattered around the room.
He cleared his throat and nodded toward the vial. "What is that?" he asked, just for something to say.
"An oil I use after bathing to keep my skin soft." Flipping her wet hair behind her, she tilted her head back and lazily worked the emollient into her throat and upper chest. The towel was so old and thin that he could almost, but not quite, see her nipples through it. "I extract the essence from almonds and thyme, and add a little to the oil. Not too much—just enough to lightly scent it." She held the vial toward him. "What do you think?"
He approached her almost warily and took the little bottle from her, bringing it to his nose. So this was the source of the enigmatic scent that always tickled his nerve endings when he was near her. Breathing in so much of her fragrance at once caused his senses to reel drunkenly. "It's quite nice."
He tried to hand the vial to her, but she stood up and turned her back to him, tugging the towel loose and lowering it. "I can't reach my back. Would you mind?"
Ladies have trouble reaching the most interesting places...
For a moment, he thought she was going to remove the towel entirely, but she wrapped it low around her hips, securing it—rather tenuou
sly, he thought—with a quick tuck. Gathering her hair to one side, she draped it over her shoulder, then stood in expectant silence, her arms loose at her sides.
Her back was as sleek and well shaped as the rest of her, her waist exquisitely slender. The damp linen towel hugged a beguilingly dimpled derriere. Luke's hand twitched as he studied the spot where she'd tucked in the towel. All he'd have to do was pull it...
Glancing over her shoulder at him, Lady Faithe said, "I can do the front while you do the back." She lifted her hand, palm up. It took him a moment to realize what she wanted, and then he loosened his white-knuckled grip on the green vial and poured a bit of the oil into her palm. "Thank you." She rubbed her hands together, and then began smoothing them over her chest. He couldn't see what she was doing, of course, since her back was to him, but his imagination filled in the details. In his mind's eye he saw her breasts, slick with oil. He felt their weight and warmth as she stroked them...
"My lord?" she murmured. "Are you going to..."
He choked out some sort of response, then tilted the vial onto his palm and laid it hesitantly on her shoulder. Her skin felt hot to the touch, and slightly damp, and so incredibly smooth already that he couldn't imagine why she felt the need to soften it further. He moved his hand slowly, gliding it over an elegant shoulder blade and down along the inward curve toward her waist. As friction heated the oil, it released more of its intoxicating fragrance. He breathed the scent in deeply, letting it enter him, wreaking havoc with his equilibrium. He massaged her with firmer pressure, feeling the compact little muscles and smooth bones beneath the satin skin. He caressed her waist, her hips, reveling in her womanly contours and the sweet, feverish heat of her.
It was intimate to be touching her this way, astonishingly intimate. To be privy to her toilette was disarming enough; to participate in it implied an understanding, a sort of sexual promise. Luke's body reacted to that promise with a surge of arousal that stole his breath. His hand tightened reflexively around the curve of her hip as he swelled and rose beneath his tunic.
"My lord?" As she turned to face him, he thrust the vial in her hand and walked away. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." He strode to the edge of the bed and looked down on it, picturing her naked and luminous on the wolfskin blanket.
Fine? He was far from fine. He ached with need, he pulsated with it. She must know what she was doing to him. No woman could be this provocative unless she were deliberately trying to tempt a man. And yet, what did he know of women like her? The women he was used to were coarse creatures adept at firing a man's lust and dispatching it as quickly as possible. Highborn women, according to his father, were largely blind to the passion they inspired in men and ill-prepared to deal with its consequences—which was why the chivalrous man must learn self-control.
"Would you like me to undress you?" She came up behind him as he stood facing the bed.
God yes. "That won't be necessary."
He felt her hands brush the back of his neck as she untied the thong that secured his braid and unplaited it by trailing her fingers through his hair. His scalp tingled where she lightly grazed it.
She closed a hand over his shoulder and urged him to face her. Her damp hair hung down on either side of her chest, cloaking her breasts. His gaze stole downward, along her flat stomach with its delicate navel, and then further, to speculate on mysteries barely obscured by the swath of flimsy toweling that stopped at her calves.
"I'm your wife," she said in a near whisper. He met her gaze and she abruptly looked away. "A wife ought to... do these things for her husband."
These things? Just undressing him, or did she mean more? Regardless of what she meant, she was obviously uncomfortable—a wife performing her duty. Luke didn't know precisely what he wanted to be to Lady Faithe, but he knew for certain that he didn't want to be her duty. "You needn't—"
"I should." She reached for his belt, and he stilled. He was so hard, so inflamed. Her hands as she unbuckled him hovered so close to the source of his hunger, yet never directly touched it. The effect was maddening. He wanted to throw her onto the bed and drive himself into her. He wanted to race from the room, to protect her from his animal lust.
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, wondering if it were possible to go mad from sexual frustration.
She tossed his belt onto the bed. Then, before he could object, she gathered up his tunic and shirt and pulled them both over his head, laying them next to the belt.
"Your arm is better," she said, lightly trailing her fingers over the bruised flesh, "but you could use some more spirit of rosemary on it."
He remembered the fire her innocent, healing touch had kindled in him last night. It would probably be a good idea to discourage such ministrations tonight. All he wanted was for her to turn her back long enough for him to get out of his chausses—which did little to mask his state of arousal—and under the covers. "'Twill heal well enough without more liniment," he said.
"'Twill heal better with it." She dropped to her knees in front of him.
Luke stepped back and felt the bed behind him. "What are you—"
"Taking off your boots," she said matter-of-factly, although he thought her fingers looked inordinantly clumsy as she tugged at the laces.
"Stop that." Her head was an inch from his groin; thank God she was looking down. "I can do that."
"I don't mind—really." As she worked the laces loose, the top of her head brushed up against him, generating a subtle but insistent stimulation that made him even harder. He wanted it to go on and on; he wanted it to stop before he lost control. He tried to back up farther, but there was nowhere to go.
"Lift your foot." She pulled off a boot and set it aside. "Now this one."
He heard her draw in a slow breath, and then she reached for the cord at the waistband of his chausses. "You don't need to do this," he rasped.
"I want to," she whispered unsteadily.
Was it possible she knew what she was doing? She had to notice his condition, but she didn't so much as blink as she wrestled with the knot he'd tied far too well. Luke's heart pounded in his ears. Her palms brushed his erection as she plucked at the cord. He sucked in a breath.
She looked up and met his gaze. He saw it in her eyes then, the resolution, the self-awareness. She knew exactly what she was doing.
Any lingering doubts vaporized when she closed a hand over his straining flesh through his chausses, lightly but deliberately, without breaking eye contact. He throbbed at her touch. Gripping her hand, he drew it up his length, molding it to him.
She did want him! She did know what she was asking for, and she wanted it as much as he did.
He noticed something then. She was shivering, very slightly from head to toe.
His ardor chilled instantly. She didn't want him at all—not really. She wanted to do her wifely duty. She wanted to consummate the marriage, because it was expected. But she didn't really want him at all. From all appearances, the prospect of giving herself to him unnerved her greatly.
He released her abruptly. "Get up."
She looked up sharply. "But... don't you want—"
"Nay." Not now, not like this. Not with her trembling like a hare in a trap. He seized her arms and pulled her to her feet.
"Your body wants it." She reached for him again, but he grabbed her wrist and held it tight.
"That's my body. My mind knows better. Get dressed."
"But—"
"Get dressed," he repeated, more harshly than he'd intended. He gentled his voice. "And we'll talk." His nerves were shattered, but he shouldn't take it out on her. She'd merely been doing her duty as she perceived it; she wasn't to blame. He wanted to explain things to her, wanted her to understand why he couldn't take her on these terms, but he couldn't hope to concentrate on what he had to say with her standing in front of him half naked.
She didn't move, except to lift her chin, her eyes blazing. "I won't let you do this to me," she said in a voice
she seemed to be struggling to control.
The intensity of her anger, and its suddenness, took Luke by surprise. "I've done nothing to you," he said carefully.
Her hands fisted in the towel draped around her. "Precisely."
Christ, but he wished she'd put some clothes on. Then, perhaps he could think. Opening the chest at the foot of the bed, he pulled out what looked to be a night shift and handed it to her. It was a shift, he saw when she unfolded it, but an exceptionally delicate one of tissue-thin linen, lightly embroidered. She jerked her towel off, and he spun around, rubbing the back of his neck while she got dressed.
"Is this better, my lord?" she said acidly.
He turned around. The nightgown scooped low in front, exposing the upper slopes of her breasts—remarkably generous breasts for such a fine-boned woman. The gossamer fabric floated around her like a whisper, revealing as much as it concealed. He saw the rosy smudges of her nipples, and a shadowy hint of what lay between her legs.
His body stirred anew, but then she said, "I know why you won't bed me," and his arousal quickly waned.
"Why?"
Her chin rose higher; her fists quivered. He admired her pluck, despite this perplexing stand she seemed to be taking. "Consummating this marriage would make me your wife in every sense. I'd be protected against—"
"What?" A pressure began to swell behind his eyes. "That's what this is about? That's why you want me to bed you? To protect yourself?"
"I married you in good faith," she said, her voice quavering. "As your wife, I have certain legal rights... the right not to be cast aside—"
"Legal rights?" he roared. Dear God, this was about legal rights. She hadn't wanted him at all. Nor had she been simply trying to do her wifely duty. She'd cold-bloodedly seduced him—or attempted to—in order to protect her legal position as his wife. Luke felt as if his head were going to burst.
He wheeled around, fists clenched, looking for something to smash. The depth of his anger unnerved him. Once the beast within him was fully wakened, God knew what it would do. An image flashed through his mind of the dead Saxon in the loft of that Cottwyk brothel. Luke had already committed murder; he was capable of anything.
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